


shiny violent killing toys

by hairbearstare



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, There is no plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9584021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hairbearstare/pseuds/hairbearstare
Summary: Written for the Inception Kink MemeIt's Arthur's first time killing someone in the real world, and it's having a strange effect on him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic posted over from my old Livejournal. I feel so much older. This was from like 6 years ago. Where does the time go? Well, ENJOY.

The job had gone straight to hell.  
  
It was one of those lessons in Murphey’s Law—anything that could have gone wrong, did. No matter what Arthur did to brief the rest of the team on the possibilities of what _could_ go wrong, it all compiled into a giant _shitstorm_ and ended in them ripping needles out of their wrists and running for their fucking lives. The extractor—a slippery, wiry man named Edmunds—took the car and drove off before any guns could be fired his direction. The architect, a jumpy, stocky woman named Loretta, managed to get bludgeoned in the head and dragged off by the mark’s bodyguards as they surrounded the building.  
  
Eames and Arthur managed to get the PASIV and run as fast as they could.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur hissed, shoving the silver briefcase into Eames’s chest, “take the PASIV and get it somewhere safe. We’ll split up, I’ll lead the guards away, you run for the exit. I will meet you back at the hotel.”  
  
“If you don’t—”  
  
“If I’m not there in two hours, _hide the PASIV_ and come find me. Because I know there’s no keeping you away, but for fuck’s sake, keep that thing safe,” Arthur growled, eyes narrowed dangerously. He reached into his suit and pulled out the concealed 9mm pistol. He checked the clip for ammo before sending Eames a look. “I have to go get Loretta, then I will come find you.” He noticed the flash of concern in Eames’s eyes and shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”  
  
Eames sighed and nodded. “I know,” he hummed, looking around the corner. He couldn’t help but feel his heart beat a little faster as Arthur’s hands tightened around the gun. “They’re coming. You best be off.”  
  
Arthur hummed and took in a slow breath. “Two hours.”  
  
“Two hours.”  
  
Arthur was off before he could say anything else. Eames cringed as he heard the guards shouting from around the corner, feet pounding on the ground as they chased Arthur down. He was off soon after, bolting towards the exit and to the street.  
  
  
  
Arthur headed them off up several floors of the abandoned building before very nearly diving behind one door. He knew they were keeping Loretta up at the top floor, with the mark. Probably trying to wring names of the team and the employer out of her. The mark was some slimy CEO of a crooked software firm named O’Brien—insane and not below killing her if she didn’t talk. He let out a slow breath and counted to five as he heard the men pass the door. He let it out quickly as he silently swept it open and ran towards the staircase again, climbing as fast as he could.  
  
When he reached the top, he kicked the door open, gun poised and finger squeezing the trigger.  
  
There stood the mark, eyes wild, gun pressed to Loretta’s bleeding temple, matting her short hair. “Ah,” the mark laughed, sounding manic, “are you Mr. Edmunds, then?”  
  
Arthur raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, keeping his gun at head-level with the mark.  
  
“She has been screaming for you, Mr. Edmunds. She wouldn’t say _anything_ except for your name, pleading you to come and rescue her. Afraid for her life.” He grinned, teeth white and sharp. “But that’s what you get for trying to steal from me. It’s not very polite, you see, and I don’t take very kindly to it,” he hissed, grin suddenly falling as he pressed the barrel of his gun against Loretta’s temple harder.  
  
Loretta let out shrieking sob, body wracked with her cries, tears streaking down her red cheeks. “Arthur, please help me, Arthur please,” she begged, green eyes wide and rimmed with red. The mark traced the pistol down her jaw and she all but _screamed_. “Arthur, _please_!”  
  
“Arthur?” O’Brien blinked, pausing. “Ah. Yes. You’re quite famous, you know. You’re one of those criminals wanted in almost every country. Only go by ‘Arthur’, yes, I’ve _heard of you_.”  
  
Arthur narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth. Fuck. This was taking longer than he had hoped. If he didn’t hurry this along, the guards would be up here and he and Loretta would both be fucked. His gun was pointed directly at O’Brien’s head, he had a clear shot, so _why was he hesitating_?  
  
“I could kill her right now, you know. But I have a feeling that if I did, then you would kill me, so it seems we are at a bit of a stalemate,” O’Brien hummed, lips curled into a sneer. “By the way you’re hesitating, you’ve probably never shot anyone before, have you?”  
  
“Shut up,” Arthur hissed.  
  
It was true, though. He had never had to kill someone before outside of a dream. Projections were one thing but killing someone—an actual _person_ —was something else entirely. He tried to keep his hands from shaking as he held his position. He wasn’t afraid so much as _conflicted_.  
  
“Arthur, Arthur please, help me....”  
  
“Help me, Arthur, please!” O’Brien imitated Loretta in a high-pitched sneer. “Yes, Arthur, help her! She’s afraid!” He laughed. “You can help her by telling me the name of your employer,” he hummed, moving the gun back to her temple, “or I kill her.”  
  
Arthur’s eyes darted from Loretta’s shaking form to O’Brien’s unwavering smirk. He kept silent.  
  
“Alright, if that’s what you want,” O’Brien purred, finger tensing around the trigger and squeezing and just about to pull—  
  
Arthur leaped forward, knocking the gun _just far enough_ away from Loretta so that the resounding shot only skimmed the back of her head. He pushed O’Brien to the ground, using his entire body weight to pin him down, trying to pry the gun from his fingers. O’Brien let out a furious snarl and bucked his torso until he overpowered Arthur and rolled him over, wrenching his wrist away and pistol-whipping Arthur across the cheek. He tasted metal and copper and felt a trickle of blood leak out of the corner of his mouth and then _fuck_ suddenly there was the gun pressing against the back of his throat and—  
  
“I am going to be the _last_ person you _ever_ steal from, Arthur _dear_ ,” O’Brien hissed.  
  
Arthur’s eyes widened a fraction as he squirmed, his arms trapped between both their torsos and all he could taste was cold metal and suddenly there was a loud shot but _he didn’t feel anything_.  
  
And then he realized that O’Brien had frozen in place. His face fell blank and his hands had gone slack. He let out a cough and there was _blood_ in it and flecks spattered across Arthur’s face.  
  
Arthur pushed him off and stood up, calm as he could manage, and saw the growing blood stain at O’Brien’s stomach. He looked down at his hands and saw the blood on his fingers, on his palms, staining his shirt cuffs. He had done it. He watched as O’Brien coughed and choked and his face paled before... nothing. He lay there, still and cold and blank and white and _dead_. Arthur numbly holstered his 9mm and untied Loretta, nodding at her to follow.  
  
They ran out of the room before the guards could run up to see what had happened.  
  
  
  
Loretta could barely speak as they parted ways. She had mumbled a hurried “thank you” before running away into the city night. Arthur walked along the streets, back straight, to the hotel where he said he would meet Eames. An hour and a half had passed by the time he opened up the door to their room.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames sighed, sounding relieved and grinning before noticing the drying blood on Arthur’s hands. “Darling....”  
  
Arthur took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair in the room, brushing past Eames. He toed off his shoes, pulled off his socks methodically, unclipped his cufflinks and shoulder holster.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames whispered, stepping closer, like he was being careful. “You...” he paused as Arthur started undoing his shirt. “Are you alright?”  
  
Arthur stopped suddenly and considered this. His hands were shaking, yeah, but not from adrenaline or fear or shock or anything like that. He stared down at the blood on his hands, felt his own heart pumping in his chest, breath coming shorter, stomach clenching....  
  
He spun around and shoved Eames against the closest wall and _kissed_ him as hard as he could. It was all teeth and tongue and too much bite, but _fuck_ did Arthur want it. The dried blood on his hands, the feel and _smell_ made him thrum with arousal. He ground his straining erection against Eames’s hip, panting against his lips and _groaning_.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Arthur—”  
  
“Shut up,” Arthur hissed, mouthing at Eames’s neck, sucking at the skin there and running his tongue along it. “Need you,” he panted, “ _now_.”  
  
Eames blinked, confused and conflicted all at once. He obviously didn’t know what to say in this situation, expected Arthur to be a sobbing, shaking mess, so Arthur decided to give him a little hand in _deciding_. “Eames,” he whispered, squeezing Eames’s crotch and rubbing with pure, naked _need_ , “please.”  
  
“Bloody _hell_ , Arthur,” Eames growled. It seemed that was all it took to get Eames into it as he grabbed Arthur’s shoulders and kissed him again. Arthur moaned and shivered at the feeling of Eames’s stubble scratching his chin, of his hands roaming over his bare chest, of his clothed erection grinding against his. _Fuck_ it was all too much, he felt so entirely breathless and light-headed and decided that maybe—  
  
“ _Fuck_ me, Mr. Eames,” he growled, turning them so Eames was pressing him against the hotel wall.  
  
Something like hunger flashed in Eames’s eyes and he grinned widely. “Right away, darling,” he purred.  
  
He quickly shoved Arthur’s pants down, throwing them across the room once they were off and hauled him up the wall. Arthur growled and wrapped his legs around Eames’s hips, leaning down and biting at his swollen bottom lip, tugging at it. “Hurry up, hurry up,” he hissed, rutting against Eames’s bare torso. The smell of blood was still pungent in the air and coupled with the scent of Eames it was utterly _intoxicating_. “Fuck... _Eames_ ,” Arthur groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.  
  
Eames fumbled in desk drawer beside them and tugged out a condom and lube, fumbling with them with shaking hands.  
  
“Need you, come on, hurry up,” Arthur panted against Eames’s earlobe, taking it into his mouth and sucking at it, nails clawing his back and tracing over tattoos. “I need you inside me, Eames, _come on_.”  
  
“Jesus _fuck_ , Arthur,” Eames hissed, pulling the zipper of his pants down and pulling his erection out. He tore the condom open with his teeth and rolled it over his cock, slicking it up with lube. “Stay _still_ ,” he groaned, pushing Arthur harder against the wall and stilling him.  
  
He grabbed one of Arthur’s legs and hiked it further up his body, resting it on his shoulder and spreading his thighs further apart. He wasted no time aligning himself with Arthur’s entrance and pushing in with only some resistance.  
  
Arthur threw his head back, ignoring the pain as it cracked against the wall. He let out a breathless whine, the burn traveling through his entire body. He felt so full, so mindless, so _complete_. He moaned brokenly as Eames shoved in roughly. He felt his thighs shake as they squeezed around Eames’s hips and shoulder, felt his toes curl as the zipper of Eames’s pants scratched against his ass like electric shocks.  
  
Eames set a brutal pace, pushing in and out so fast and _fuck_ that was what Arthur wanted. He grit his teeth, jaw set tight and he pushed down to meet each of Eames’s thrusts. He felt the ache in his lower back, numbed slightly by the sheer _need_ that he felt for this. He felt Eames’s cock pulse inside of him, moving in him, grinding into him.  
  
Arthur took one of his own hands—still caked with dried blood—and brought it to his mouth, licking the blood off. He moaned around his fingers as he tasted coppers, sucking on them hungrily. Eames stared openly and the fact that Eames was _watching_ made Arthur shake with the sudden spike of arousal. He whimpered and ground down in Eames’s cock, thrusting frantically.  
  
“Arthur, you sick fucking _freak_ ,” Eames groaned, tearing Arthur’s hand from his mouth to kiss him. His pace became frenzied, hands gripping Arthur’s thighs hard enough to leave bruises. Arthur could only taste blood and sweat and _Eames_ and the taste was so fucking sweet that Arthur nearly came then. “Not yet, darling,” Eames growled, feeling him tense.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur whined, reaching down and stroking at his cock with his one still bloodied hand.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Eames groaned, watching the sight with wide eyes. He thrust harder, mouth wide open. He scratched Arthur’s thighs, panting heavily against his mouth, licking at his lips. “ _Fuck_ , darling, gonna come...” he hissed.  
  
“Yeah... yeah,” Arthur moaned, unable to say anything else as he squeezed his own dick, thumb brushing over the head. Flecks of dried blood were coming off and sticking to his skin, leaving red dots of someone else’s blood on his own skin and just _seeing that sight_ —  
  
He jerked as he came into his own hand, spine locking and body shaking uncontrollably. He didn’t even feel Eames’s own orgasm, only vaguely heard the shout of his own name over the thrum of blood racing through his ears.  
  
He came to in a heap on the floor with Eames slumped over him.  
  
“You’re sick, darling,” Eames grumbled, tying off the condom and tossing it into the trashcan, “if that’s how you react to killing someone.”  
  
Arthur only smiled and stared at the ceiling. He felt the amazing pulse of pure arousal through him at the memory of the gunshot, of the wet, sticky blood coating his hands and speckling across his face, how it was _so different_ than in dreams, so fucking _real_....   
  
He remembered the blossoming red patch on O’Brien’s shirt. He remembered watching as his eyes flickered between alive and dead before finally blinking out completely. He remembered the sheer satisfaction at the sight of that cold, lifeless body, the red bullet wound, the _blood on his hands_.  
  
He ran his hands over his body and laughed lightly.  
  
“Yeah,” he murmured, “I guess so.”


End file.
